Dead Last
by David Brighton
Summary: Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran play a friendly game of Mario Kart.


When Moran comes to the penthouse Jim points to a chair and thrusts the controller at him without saying a word. It's 2003 and Jim's just spent a record eleven months underground. He's been blinking again and again since he left the lab, trying to clear away a film that doesn't exist. It feels like a second eyelid.

He's twitchy and off. Odd dreams have been plaguing him for weeks and while he's always believed that something in him is dead he's never considered it from a present tense perspective. It's always been a past tense matter— _part of me died—_ and purely human. The dead part has forever been the natural result of childhood trauma or an unfortunate chemical imbalance or just too many brains stuffed into his skull.

There are people who believe intelligent creatures exist that have never been human at all and Jim believes people who think such things must not have much going on in their lives. There are mountains of evil and horror in the world; he's climbed some of them and others bear his name and adding a paranormal cherry on top is sheer overkill.

And yet the feeling lingers in him that something enormous and dead and not‐human is lurking under the surface of his mind, and that in the final weeks of his solitude it has come close to breaching.

It's probably not the ideal mindset for a friendly game of cartoon racing but he feels like such a zombie it's all that occurs to him.

He huddles on the sofa in expensive jeans and a pullover hoodie and Mario Kart does seem to be working. He's not playing well but he feels a bit more like a human being and less like a Cthulhu‐esque monstrosity with each lap.

Soon a little hiss of frustration is leaving him with every spinout and shell collision and tinkling lightning bolt and he's been imitating an angry locomotive for the better part of an hour when Moran badly miscalculates.

He does it at the worst possible moment, just when Jim's in the lead and feeling a little pleased. Jim sees the red shell spin off into the distance over a jump when it could easily take him out and win Moran the race. _He threw it,_ is his disbelieving thought and when he blinks again the film over his eyes is gone, burned away by fury.

Before Moran's character even crosses the finish line Jim's already leapt from the sofa. He scrambles across the space between them, yanking at the gun nestled in his hoodie pocket.

"I SAW THAT," he howls, and chambers a round while the barrel is still tracking toward Moran's face.

His lieutenant slowly puts up his hands. Even his fingertips extend away from the controller he's still holding. "Okay," he murmurs. "All right."

"Do you think I'm a stupid person?" Jim raises his eyebrows.

"No."

"Do you think it's your job to make me feel good about myself?"

"No."

"And do you think a victory I didn't earn could ever do that?"

Moran shakes his head minutely.

The barrel of the gun inches closer to the stubbled cheek. He lets the anger he's feeling chill his voice. "Then why are you acting like you think these things are true?"

This time there's no response at all and Jim thinks Moran might finally be starting to get just what a colossal mistake he's made.

His stance softens and he squats next to the chair, unwrapping his right hand from the pistol grip and letting his fingers curl around the armrest. His eyebrows have finally descended but his eyes are wide open and staring.

"I don't think I trust you anymore," he confides.

Moran swallows and Jim watches his Adam's apple move. The man's smart enough not to grovel or beg for forgiveness but it's clear he doesn't know how to fix this. Jim waits and stares and enough time passes that beads of sweat spring up on Moran's face.

"I don't know what to do," he says finally.

"You don't have to," Jim says. "That's my job." He stands and presses the barrel of the gun into Moran's cheekbone.

"We're going to play again. This time if you lose I'm going to splatter your brains all over my pretty white walls."

Now they're in a space both are familiar with. Jim's word is the foundation of everything he's built and he never breaks a promise. If he has to find a new right hand man it will be quite a search because Moran is perfect for the job, but on the bright side it'll give him something to do. Maybe a change will do him good.

"And if I win?" Moran says.

"You get to live. Whoopee."

"What course?"

"It's not my life. You choose." Jim retreats to the sofa and exchanges the gun for the controller. When he looks up the game is ready and he can pick a character. "Banshee Boardwalk? Are you sure?"

"You're the one who falls off, not me."

"Oh, that's right," he laughs. "Good choice."

Moran selects Bowser and Jim's glad to see he's taking this seriously. Mario is his own neutral choice and the moment is ripe for a bit of shit talking.

"I hope you kissed that chubby baby of yours goodnight before you came here."

"I'll do it later," Moran flashes back, his eyes on the screen. He misses Jim's delighted grin; Moran hardly ever shows such spirit. It will really be a shame if he has to shoot him.

The game begins and the NPCs swarm around them. Moran only has to beat Mario but the others add an extra layer of chaos with their numbers and their cheating ways.

They're both at the front of the pack, but it's Moran who slides off the boards at the zig zag turn, not Jim.

"Uh oh," he sings. He feels light as a feather, his torpor completely shaken off by the game he's created, his favorite kind. Whatever the outcome of this, he wins.

A minute later the blue shell smashes into him at precisely the right moment to shove him off the track completely. While he's being fished out of oblivion he glances over. Moran is leaning forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, totally focused on the television.

By the time he's back up he's in eighth place and Moran is pushing fourth. A triple pack of red shells helps him claw his way back in the second lap, but the next powerup is only a fake item box. He leaves it hidden among the next set and continues on.

In the third lap the zig zag sucks them both down, one on each side of the narrow planks. Moran takes the shortcut through the haunted house but it doesn't net him much even though Jim is mired by bats.

On the other side Jim tries to turn but he's going too fast and his attempt to drift has him sailing out into empty air again. An NPC uses a lightning bolt and flattens Moran while he's coming back up.

Jim is in seventh and Moran is in eighth and they're both leaning forward now in the runup to the finish line. Moran knocks into him; RNG kicks in and Jim's lighter cart spins out.

But he still has a banana peel and he flips it deftly ahead of them. It lands just in front of the black and white checkered finish line. Moran won't be able to avoid it and Jim is ready to snatch up the Beretta but the peel is too close to the marker. Momentum carries Moran across in seventh even as he spins out.

Jim finishes eighth.

"What an embarrassing display," he says with relish. "We're both just _terrible."_

Across the room Moran has collapsed back into the chair. His arms hang over the sides and his long legs extend limply over the marble overlay. The controller still dangles in his loose grip and his eyes are closed. He's sweating through his shirt in wide dark patches, totally spent.

A rare feeling of pity comes over Jim. He pads to the kitchen and fetches a bottle of Murphy's Irish Stout with his own hands; he doesn't drink and it takes him several moments of stirring in the utensil drawer to find the opener. By the time he returns Moran is ready to look at him again. His eyes are a bit glassy.

Moran accepts the bottle and tilts the contents down his throat in one long swallow. He still doesn't seem inclined to move or speak, and that's fine.

The stacks of backdated newspapers and magazines are calling to him, and he plucks an issue of _The Economist_ from the bottom of its pile while his lieutenant recovers.

He's in the middle of the second issue when Moran finally stirs. "Do you need me for anything else?"

"Not tonight," he says, turning the page. "Just get the word out that we're open for business and accepting new clients. Don't save it up; I want to see everything you get right away."

Moran leaves while Jim is reading an article on the American economy and he's so absorbed he hardly notices.

That night Jim Moriarty sleeps like a baby. His dreams are sweet, full of mayhem and games, and if one of the old gods really has peered out of his black eyes lately it has decided to subside, at least for now.


End file.
